


A Hollow Throne

by Skalidra



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, King Shiro, M/M, Murder, Occupation, Referenced amputation, puppet king
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: The Galra Empire is brutal about taking what they want, and as Shiro finds out, that's true about both the planets of his kingdom, and far more personal matters. When the war is done he's still King, but little more than a figurehead ruled by the Galra 'adviser' planted beside him, an arrangement that's bad enough even without Emperor Zarkon's return trips to see how they're 'acclimating.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to day 5! (Manipulation/Bloodplay; that second one's not in here.) Sorry this one's a little late in the day; work's kept me running around and I didn't have it quite ready to go this morning. So, this is an AU in which Shiro is King of several human planets, which have been taken over by the Galra Empire (Zarkon). Still space and everything, but an entirely different storyline. Also, that Archive Warning up there is not kidding; this story contains flat out rape. Be aware.

Shiro stands still, letting his aide, Keith, pull him into a rich, black and gold coat. It attaches together at the front, form-fitting to emphasize his build and the strength in his form. What parts of him are still real, anyway. Keith tugs it flat, straightens one crooked corner of the collar, and then reaches out onto the table beside them for the single black glove. He can see the faint tremble in Keith's hand as it circles his metal wrist, but the glove is still slipped onto his fake hand without comment, hiding the clearly Galra tech from view.

Not that anyone in his kingdom could be blind, by now, of the fact that they've become part of the Galra empire. The war had been short, overwhelmed as they were, and though his fight with Zarkon had been private (and painfully one-sided), the entire kingdom had witnessed the televised spectacle of his new arm being soldered into his skin, the Galra-brand on the side of it as clear as day.

He hears that he screamed, but though he was conscious he doesn't remember much of it apart from the occasional vivid flashbacks that fuel his nightmares. He hasn't had the stomach to go back and watch the broadcast himself. He has the arm itself to remind him that he's owned, as well as the deliberate scar across his face to taunt him every time he glances in the direction of a mirror. It pulls at his face every time he makes any kind of expression though, and he hasn't grown used to that sensation yet.

Keith picks up his crown, and he swallows as he ducks his head, letting the thin ring of gold get set onto his scalp, secured through several tiny clips at the front and back, clipping into his hair. Then Keith carefully, gently, combs the lock of his whitened hair out over the crown. It feels like a lie, but he lifts his head anyway.

Once upon a time, he probably would have tugged Keith closer, kissed him and wasted a few moments before going out in front of his subjects, but… He's a puppet king of a broken kingdom, and Keith is right for not wanting to touch him. He doesn't even want to touch himself. There's even less of a chance of anything between them now than there was before; he doubts he could do anything as major as marriage without getting permission for it, and he's not sure what Zarkon wants in terms of his successor.

He's sure it will be dictated to him at some point.

Keith hesitates, and after a moment Shiro pulls his gaze away, stepping back. "Thanks," he offers, as he adjusts the glove over his hand. He avoids whatever Keith's expression might be as he walks out, doing his best to keep his back and shoulders straight as he moves out into his throne room. Keith is at his back, a few strides behind but silent. The throne room is empty for now, apart from a couple of his advisers, but he knows it won't stay that way for long.

He can see the way his advisers' gazes still rake across his face, across the most prominent mark of his defeat, before shying away. He doesn't blame them. If he'd been stronger, better… No. Zarkon is centuries old and if he's honest he could never have come out on top. Even if he had refused to allow Zarkon to use him as a puppet king, all that would have happened was someone else would be on the throne. Someone of Zarkon's choice.

He honestly doesn't know which option would have been better, these days.

"Bring the first," he orders, as he takes his seat. Keith obeys, heading for the main doors and stepping outside to bring in the first of his subjects.

There's a never ending supply of supplicants these days, people whose homes or jobs were destroyed by Zarkon's swift, violent takeover. Or those who beg for him to do something about the Galra soldiers that still enforce the 'peace' in his cities, as if there's anything he can do about it. The two Galra soldiers stationed in his very throne room, near the side exits, are proof enough that he's powerless in that regard. As is the Galra adviser he's been assigned, that relays anything Zarkon wants him to do.

He struggles to ignore the sick feeling in his gut as his subjects come before him, one by one. Over half of them, there's nothing he can do. The planets beneath his rule are hemorrhaging resources and money as it is, and he wishes he could hand out what his people need but he just _can't_. They're being punished for their resistance; it will be years before their economy comes anywhere close to being stabilized. A fact that his advisers remind him of often, as if he could forget the price of all of this with its weight heavy on his shoulder.

When he can't bear any more, and his Galra adviser is starting to look terminally bored (he's pushed that limit before, trying to _help_ , and had subjects shot down right before his eyes for daring), he calls a halt to things. Keith shuts the doors, dismissing the rest to wait for another day, and then goes to fetch refreshments for them. The Galra adviser leads the way towards the side chamber, although the two others present wait for him to stand and follow before heading that way as well.

He's not standing quite as straight, but these are advisers he's known since his childhood and they know every inch of what the war has done to their kingdom. A little bit of exhaustion, a little bit of resignation, is hardly out of character at this point. They'll understand. He can see the same lines of tension in their backs, and the tiredness in their eyes.

By the time he's gotten to the side room, the Galra adviser has already taken the seat at the head of the table that should be his. He doesn't even consider fighting for it, just heads to the opposite end and sits there instead. His two advisers take the seats on either side of him, and he ignores how the Galra smirks. He probably won't manage it for long, but it's nice to not have to deal with the stranglehold of his government for just a minute.

Keith arrives with two servants in tow just a minute later, thankfully, and they're each given drinks by one as the other sets the platter of food in the center of the table.

"Thank you," he murmurs, even though the Galra adviser scoffs at him for the minor kindness.

He dismisses Keith along with the two servants, before he straightens slightly in his chair, letting one hand curl half around the glass of water there. He doesn't begrudge his other advisers their alcoholic drinks, as long as they can still do their job. Not that there's all that much of a job to do; the Empire dictates ninety-percent of his more important decisions.

"What is there today?" he asks, and settles in for another for-show meeting.

* * *

It's a couple hours later before Keith interrupts, sliding inside in the middle of an argument between his two human advisers. He doesn't interrupt them, just flicks his finger to order Keith closer as he listens to the debate. (He half believes that in another ten or so minutes the Galra adviser will cut in and tell them what they're going to do; he seems to enjoy watching them debate when there's no point to it.)

He lifts his head as Keith unobtrusively circles around, leaning down in next to him to whisper, "Your Grace, _Emperor Zarkon_ is here."

He can't help stiffening a bit at the unexpected news, but he forces himself to nod, to dismiss Keith with another flick of his fingers. The door shuts, and he pushes back from the table, cutting through the voices of his advisers to say, "We're done for today. Dismissed; we'll pick this back up tomorrow."

The Galra adviser stands, as the other two look at him in confusion. "Oh, did I forget to mention that our Emperor was coming by?" is the clearly smug question. "Best not to keep him waiting, _King_."

His actually helpful advisers pale, and leave the room right on the heels of the Galra one, basically as fast as possible. He takes just a moment to steel himself, to take in a deeper breath, and to not panic. Zarkon hasn't been here since their defeat; it's been months, surely if there was a problem he'd have been told by now. The last time he remembers being face to face with Zarkon was—

His breath catches, his hands trembling a bit despite his best attempts to stop it. It was during the time he spent in the cells of Zarkon's flagship, after his public surrender of the kingdom (and the subsequent attachment of his new arm), but before the last of his kingdom was properly under the Empire's control. He was treated well enough, physically, and his injuries were cared for, but… The Galra do things differently, establish rank differently. Or maybe Zarkon just enjoyed toying with him.

He heads out, curling his hands to fists since they won't stop trembling, trying to keep his head high. He's not really surprised to see Zarkon standing to the side of his throne, but it still twists his stomach into an unpleasant knot. He makes himself approach anyway, as Zarkon — bigger and stronger than him, and making his throne look small in comparison — turns towards him, mouth curled in a faint smirk that feels infinitely more in control than the adviser's ever did.

"Clear the room," comes the order, and it takes him a moment to realize Zarkon isn't speaking to him, but to the four Galra soldiers in the room. "No one enters."

They move with the smooth, practiced stride of soldiers, splitting in half to each go out one of the two real exits (his side one, and the main doors). He watches, standing about a dozen feet from Zarkon, until both doors are closed and the throne room is empty aside from them. The silence is deafening.

"Takashi," Zarkon greets almost warmly, watching him. "Come a little closer."

He knows that reluctance will only make him a larger target, so he does as ordered. He comes up to Zarkon, and at the gesture from one hand he sinks to a knee before him, offering his submission before it can be taken. "Emperor Zarkon."

He's left to kneel there for a moment before Zarkon grants, "You may stand."

He gets back to his feet, lifting his head to meet Zarkon's gaze. "Is there something I can do for you, Emperor?" he dares to ask, after taking a moment to weigh the risks of sounding like he wants to get rid of Zarkon as soon as possible, against the pros of actually having Zarkon leave as soon as possible.

By Zarkon's expression, what he's doing is plain but apparently amusing, which means he can get away with it. "I'm only here to check in, my pawn. Did you think I was going to conquer your system and then simply leave, to never return?"

"I've been busy trying to stabilize things," he answers, truthfully enough. "Your proxy wasn't enough to keep us in line?"

Zarkon strikes fast enough that he's halfway to the floor before he realizes that he's been hit, and his metal arm barely catches him in time to stop him crashing into the ground. His cheek aches; from past experience he knows that it wasn't Zarkon's full strength, because his jaw isn't broken. He takes in a slow breath, staying on the floor in an attempt to pacify Zarkon. Not that he really believes that Zarkon is _angry_ ; if Zarkon were angry his skull would be in pieces.

"Careful," Zarkon remarks, idly. "Do I need to teach you to mind your tongue again, my pawn?

He takes another slow breath. "No, Emperor. I'm sorry."

"Stand," he's ordered, and he does. His head swims slightly, but he stands as tall as possible. Zarkon looks him over, slowly, with enough intent that he can't help the shiver that takes him. "Are you ashamed of the gift I gave you?" is the deceptively casual question.

It takes him a moment to relate it to the fact that his Galra arm is hidden beneath the sleeve of his coat, and the glove he has on. Then he swallows, considers lying, and finally simply answers, "Yes."

Zarkon nods. Then comes the command, "Take the coat off, and the glove."

Fear takes his breath for a moment, then he numbly lifts his hands and obeys. He steps forward just enough that when he slides the stiff coat off his shoulders he can drape it over the arm of the throne, before he strips off the glove and adds that on top. It leaves him in the vest he wears beneath, his arms bare and the Galra one on display, which he's sure is the intention.

Zarkon reaches forward, one huge hand circling his bicep and tugging him in, uncomfortably close even before Zarkon chuckles, claw sweeping over the join of metal and flesh. "You've healed well, the prosthetic is fully functional, and it bears the symbol of your new allegiance. Is the reminder of your defeat that shameful, my pawn? Or do you lack loyalty?"

He has to swallow, to calm the race of his heart, before he can answer. "I'm not Galra, Emperor Zarkon. I'm not ashamed of being beaten, and I'll do what I have to to protect my people; whatever you demand of me. I'm not sure I can give loyalty though, if that's what you want."

"Obedience is enough for now," Zarkon grants. "Show my gift publicly at least twice a week from now on; my 'proxy' will be ordered to make sure you do. And stop wearing the glove."

"My subjects react better if the arm is hidden," he argues.

Zarkon gives a small smile, and then a soft, "I don't care. Keeping your people in line is your job, _Takashi._ If you want them to survive, train them to accept my rule. As I have trained you." A slight shift forward as Shiro's breath catches. "Do you need a reminder of how to do that?"

He swallows, hard. "I—” He has to swallow a second time, keenly feeling the press of the hand around his arm. "Somehow I don't think that raping my subjects would help them accept your rule," he manages, and his voice only shakes a bit. "Humans don't work like that."

Zarkon's other hand lifts, tracing clawed fingertips up the side of his throat, to his aching cheek. "It worked on you, didn't it my pawn?"

He almost flinches away. "Cutting off my _arm_ worked. You didn't need to do anything else."

"No," Zarkon admits, tugging him just a little closer, until his neck has to bend sharply back to still meet Zarkon's gaze. "But I enjoyed it. I think I'll enjoy it more now that you won't be struggling."

He stiffens.

Zarkon's thumb slips up his throat, and he shudders, whispers, "Don't. Please."

Zarkon lets go of his arm, but presses the thumb harder against his throat to keep his head held high. "Bend over the arm of your throne." A small sound, almost a whimper, escapes his chest at the implication. Zarkon gives a small smile. "I can find worse things to demand, my pawn. Prove your obedience to me, and after I check up on your worlds I'll leave, as simple as that. Fight me, and I will have to take a more personal interest in your kingdom. Make your choice, little king."

There is no choice. Once now, or more later. Any other glimmer of hope is a lie; he won't fall for that again.

He shifts backwards enough to escape the press of Zarkon's thumb, before he steps to the side and forward, and leans down to bend over the raised arm of the throne. It's high enough that it's a good height for this, though perhaps a little low for Zarkon himself. Shiro's metal fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, trapped beneath him, and he lowers his head until his forehead is almost touching the seat of the chair. He can feel Zarkon move, before claws press hard enough along his back that he can feel the pressure through his vest.

"There. See? Obedience is easier, my pawn. I promise you."

He shudders, but doesn't fight how the claws slide around his waist, somehow managing to deftly undo his belt and then strip his pants down without actually scraping against his skin. It's a simple enough sort of task, but Zarkon's fingers are bigger, less agile, and his clothing is made for human-sized hands. The precision is enough to frighten him, even as he dully recognizes that he's beginning to disassociate a bit. If he wasn't worried that Zarkon would take it as trying to escape, he'd gladly let it happen.

His legs are pushed slightly apart, before there's the press of something slick against him, sliding _into_ him. Memory tells him it's not nearly big enough to be Zarkon himself, so it must be a finger.

"When you obey," Zarkon murmurs, as he reflexively tenses around the intrusion and then forces himself to give, "then you are allowed to enjoy yourself, little king. Whether you can is up to you, of course, but I imagine with enough time you'll learn to accept the pleasures that exist in life, even if they do come at my allowance."

He bites his lip not to respond, even as tears sting the corners of his eyes. The pain keeps him somewhat focused, keeps him from drifting off into his own head as Zarkon, with deliberate thoroughness, coaxes his body open. Fear keeps him limp, thankfully, with the memories of the first time this happened bright in his mind.

It was painful then. Bloody. His arm, freshly attached, had been numb only through the virtue of localized painkillers, but that did nothing to stop the agony of being torn open as he fought. For Zarkon it had been simply another demonstration of dominance, and a reminder of his helplessness; for him, it was a horror he could only barely understand the point of, and a violation that still clings to him. One that's going to be repeated.

He grits his teeth to try and muffle the sobs, but can do nothing for how they shake his shoulders, or how he's trembling. Whether it amuses Zarkon or just falls beneath what he deigns to notice, Shiro isn't sure, but he's distantly thankful for the lack of attention drawn to his tears.

Finally Zarkon's fingers slip from him, and he has several moments to understand the implications of that, and the impending act, before the hand is back, curling around his hip to keep him in place. He shudders, and then Zarkon is pushing into him and his back bows, the sensation shoving his breath from him in a sharp grunt. It doesn't hurt, not exactly, but it's intense and he knows that human bodies are not meant to interact with Galra like this. It's too much, a dull ache even with the prep, and he's bizarrely thankful that he can't see any of it from this angle. He doesn't want to know the actual size of what's in him; he knows that it _feels_ massive.

Zarkon's hand leaves his hip and presses to his low back, pinning him down against the arm of the chair with firm pressure. As if he's going to struggle now. The thrusts start slow and deep, equally deliberate and calculated as the fingers were before. He curls his flesh hand into a fist and lowers his head that last inch to press against the throne's seat, struggling not to tense. There won't be any give if he does, he's sure.

"You humans give so easily to stronger partners," comes Zarkon's comment. Still coolly amused, like this isn't happening. "Flexible bodies, even the ones of your gender who aren't biologically meant for it. You are not unique in that regard, but your race does do it quite excellently. I should take one of you with me; an _ambassador_ to… improve relations between our species. They can join the others of species I found interesting."

"Please don't," he begs, hating how his voice sounds. Hates how Zarkon sounds completely unaffected, and he sounds like the mess he is. "Anything you want from me I'll give, but _please_ don't subject anyone else to this."

"You would rather I send for you when I wish to amuse myself in human skin, little king?" A harder thrust breaks the rhythm, enough to pull a small yelp from him. "My attentions are varied; you would be paired with other species or my lieutenants as I wish, pleased or hurt at my whim… What you are offering is not as simple as this." A press of the hand on his back to emphasize what 'this' is. "Is that what you want, little king?"

No. But he doesn't want anyone _else_ to suffer this, and he's already broken. What will more matter?

"I'll do what I have to do," he swears, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please, take me instead."

Zarkon gives an amused hum of sound, thrusts picking up a bit of speed. "But I want you here, my pawn," Zarkon reminds him. "A symbol of my victory, for all your people to see. You _cannot_ take the position you so nobly want to give yourself to; the journeys would be too long and I don't intend to stay close to your capital." A choked sound of denial leaves his throat, wrenched from him by the abrupt invalidation of his sacrifice. "Perhaps when I finish exterminating the Alteans, and I have their warp technology, you may play the roles of both King and pet. For now, I will choose another from your court. I'll even let you have some say in who it is."

"No," he gasps, his back arching a bit, hips flinching forward a half-inch. "Please, _no_."

He can't even imagine having to _pick_ which member of his court has to go with Zarkon. He can't imagine having to condemn someone to a life like that; trapped on a ship so far away from home and at the mercy and whims of a tyrant like Zarkon. The thought of having to help Zarkon decide who has to suffer for the foreseeable future makes his stomach tight, makes him curl his flesh hand tight enough that it hurts as a fresh wave of grief draws new, harder tears from him.

He sobs out a breath, trying not to think too much about it. He can't change anything anyway; he can only endure the loss of whatever Zarkon takes from him and try to protect his people as best as he can, with what little he has left.

Zarkon, mercifully, doesn't speak again. The thrusts stay measured, if faster, until Zarkon presses deep with a quiet groan and he feels the rush of liquid heat deep in his gut. He bites his lip to not cry anew at the feeling, or at the slow circles that Zarkon's thumb is rubbing into the skin just below the edge of his vest. He stays still, apart from how he's shaking, until Zarkon chuckles and pulls out of him, hand remaining on his back.

Zarkon's barely slipped out when suddenly there's new pressure shoving its way past his sore muscles. He yelps, wriggling to get away for a moment as he forgets himself, but the hand on his back keeps him pinned. Whatever it is it's thick, texture uneven as it grinds its way inside him, artificial and unforgiving. He cries out when it finally settles, buried deeply enough in him that it almost matches Zarkon himself, but rigid and unyielding in a way that flesh isn't.

He shudders, wondering about the new violation for a brief moment, before it suddenly, _viciously_ , expands in him. It steals his breath, and he arches his back and chokes on the air itself, trying to register the fact that whatever in him has expanded at the base and functionally locked itself in place. Zarkon gives a quiet laugh, apparently amused by his distress.

"I'll have to remain here a couple of days," comes the idle comment. "To review how your people are adjusting to their new masters, and to pick an 'ambassador' from among your court. You were so eager to play that role; you can fulfill it while I'm here at your palace."

Zarkon's fingers curl into the back of his vest, dragging him up to standing and holding him there even as he gasps at the shift of the thing inside him, at the new angle and the weakness in his legs because of it. Zarkon's other hand slides down and taps at the base of the thing in him, sending a jolt intense enough to make him jerk.

"When I leave," Zarkon comments, voice all too close to his ear, "so will this. Until then, I'll enjoy use of you whenever I desire it, and we can see how much of me you can take. Perhaps you'll rethink your desire to prostrate yourself before me, little king." He's released, and without the support he collapses to the floor, one shoulder leaning heavily against the side of his throne. "Dress yourself," comes the command. "You can start by ordering a meal for me from your servants, and you should make them aware that their king will taste every dish before I ever do."

Slowly, he manages to make himself obey.

"Yes, Emperor."

* * *

Three days pass before Zarkon leaves again, a young woman of his court in tow who takes it well enough. He doubts she knows exactly what she's been chosen for, but there's nothing he can do to help her so he doesn't try. He's sore himself, a mess of aches and shame and wrung out so thoroughly that he feels as though he could sleep for weeks. Not that there's time for that.

Zarkon left behind projects for him to do, things almost benevolent in that the resources are given to them, though what they're building are things clearly intended for Galra use. Apparently it's common practice for the Galra to spread out onto every world they conquer, putting tendrils down and in general establishing a presence everywhere that belongs to them. It helps his economy though, so even if he could get away with complaining he wouldn't; his people needs jobs, homes… Work is work.

The Galra adviser knows something about what Zarkon was doing, he's sure, because the smirks he gets turn sharper. There's more intent behind them. He also starts moving closer when it can be seen as casual, brushing past Shiro with even less regard for his personal space than there was before. He endures it silently; it's not like the adviser is actually doing anything, and nothing has changed in any way that he can't ignore. One more slight inconvenience is hardly enough to make him react at this point.

It's two weeks past Zarkon's visit when it escalates to more.

He's in his quarters with Keith, planning out the details of a smaller dinner he's hosting (mainly to court richer, wealthier, independent families that he really needs the support of), when his doors are shoved open. He pulls his head up, narrowing his eyes as the Galra adviser strides in as though the room is his, as though he has a right to be here.

"Out," the Galra orders, flicking fingers at Keith dismissively, like he's nothing more than another servant.

Shiro gets to his feet, reaching his flesh hand out to very gently touch Keith's shoulder. "Confirm the attendance and the courses," he orders, quieter. "Let me know the results later."

"Yes, your Grace," Keith agrees, bowing his head and wisely not meeting the Galra's gaze, taking a wide route to curve around him as he leaves.

"Can I help you?" he asks, trying to keep the slight annoyance from his tone.

The way the adviser smiles, sharp and with too many teeth to be friendly even in their culture, makes him think that he's not going to like this even a little bit. A thought that's confirmed when without any preamble there's an immediate, "Did you enjoy your time with our Emperor, Takashi?" The twist in the words makes the meaning clear, and he sets his jaw. "Disappointed that he didn't take you as part of his harem?"

He straightens a tiny bit, meeting the Galra's gaze squarely. "I have a kingdom to run," he says, keeping his voice low and calm. "Unless you have something of importance to ask or tell me, I'd ask that you let me get back to that."

He's entirely ignored. "Don't worry," the Galra mocks, stepping closer to him. Uncomfortably close. "I'm sure that Emperor Zarkon will visit regularly enough to make use of you." His stomach is twisting again, drawn tight with shame and a bright thread of fear. "Do you think he'd mind if you were a little _used_ when he came back? No, he would have told me if he did."

"Get out," he demands, his voice as tight as his gut.

"I will, when I'm done with you." The adviser steps forward again, reaching out, and he jerks away, the back of his leg knocking into the couch he and Keith were sitting on.

"Don't touch me." He tries for anger, for firmness, but it comes out higher and cracking to betray him. "You can't do this; I'll—”

"Kneel down and take it like you did for him," is what the Galra adviser cuts him off with, mouth curling in a nasty smile. "Behave and I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't hurt, or something."

A sharp step bring the Galra closer, close enough to touch, to reach out and grab his human arm, claws digging into his skin as he's wrenched forwards. He stumbles, gets yanked up, and his vision is filled with purple skin and sharp teeth, hand hard around his arm, holding him in place and--

There's a _crunch_ that sounds like cartilage, and it isn't until the Galra adviser stumbles backwards, choking and letting go of him, that he realizes that he struck. His metal, Galra hand is curled into a fist at his side, shoulder tense. The Galra collapses to the floor, and through the clawing of hands obscuring it Shiro realizes that the Galra's throat is caved in, face rapidly coloring with a darker flush of purple as he fails to breathe.

He tilts his head, watching with a very curious sort of calm as the Galra seizes, writhing, and then finally goes still and lax.

The room is silent.

Slowly, Shiro lifts his Galra hand and lets it curl out of its fist, examining how it moves with a detached sort of numbness as he flexes the metal fingers. It's… stronger than he expected. He was always too ashamed of his metal arm to test it, but… maybe it really was a sort of gift. He takes in a shallow breath, listening to how it faintly shakes.

He can't change the fact that it's part of him. He can't regrow his arm, or heal the scar across his face, or erase anything that Zarkon's done to him. He also can't stop anything that Zarkon chooses to do in the future, which has been made abundantly clear to him. But that doesn't mean he isn't still the King. It doesn't mean that he has to take all of this lying down; his 'loyalty' ends at Zarkon and it doesn't extend to being pushed around by whatever adviser he's stuck with.

As he watches his hand, he comes to the vivid, clear realization that he would rather _die_.

He lowers his hand, and then very carefully steps around the Galra on the floor, heading for the communications desk in the corner of the room. He takes his seat, starts the console, and punches in his line to Zarkon's ship. It takes a minute, where he sits still and breathes evenly, before the connection goes through and Zarkon's face comes into view.

 _"My little king,"_ Zarkon greets, with a small smile. _"What is it you need?"_

He cuts to the chase, his voice flat and even as he says, "I need a new adviser."

That gets Zarkon's attention, though the smile stays as he asks, _"What happened to the last one?"_

"Dead. By my hand." He pauses, glances down at his arm, and amends, "Sort of. Should I expect a firing squad in the next few days?"

 _"I suppose that would depend on why the adviser I assigned you is dead."_ Zarkon sounds amused more than dangerous, so far.

He lifts his head, facing Zarkon again. "I'm still a king," he points out, feeling steadier by the moment. "My obedience ends at you, Emperor. If you want me watched, send an adviser well-behaved enough that I won't have to defend myself from them. I'm not a toy for your officials."

Zarkon laughs, and it chills him a little bit but he makes himself stay still. When the laughter fades, Zarkon smirks at him and grants, _"Very well, I'll send someone to replace him; the ship will pick up the body."_

"Understood, Emperor." He inclines his head for a moment as he speaks, and when he lifts it again Zarkon is watching him, head tilted a bit to one side.

There's a moment of silence before Zarkon tells him, _"Keep that spine, little king; it's better than your fear."_ Zarkon leans back a touch, as he swallows. _"Expect a replacement within a couple days; until they arrive you're not to make any larger decisions, is that clear?"_

"It's clear."

_"Good. Then I imagine you have a body to deal with, little king. Until next time."_

The feed cuts out, and Shiro exhales, realizing that his flesh hand is faintly trembling. He shakes it out and stands, turning back towards the Galra on his floor. He just looks for a minute, before he turns back to his desk and cues in a very different communication line.

 _"Your Grace?"_ Keith answers, after just a moment. Audio only, but that's fine.

"Keith, head back and bring two Galra soldiers with you. I have a mess for them to clean up."


End file.
